


Dating The Dead

by MissMoochy



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Necrophilia, One-Sided Relationship, Out of Character, Peter Parker is a Mess, Presumed Dead, Regeneration, Top Peter Parker/Bottom Wade Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Peter is a necrophiliac who finds a handsome corpse one day. He returns, again and again, to spend time with it, but is disturbed to find it has seemingly changed positions and outfits since he saw it last. But that’s impossible...right? Peter is a normal(ish) human in this, no superpowers.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 214





	Dating The Dead

The first dead body Peter Parker saw had been Uncle Ben. He hadn’t looked dead. His face still held colour and his eyes were closed. Peter suspected, if they’d been open, they would have been blank, like a porcelain’s doll glass eyes. Or like two beads swimming in bowls of milk. Aunt May had cried on Peter’s shoulder as they left the morgue.

Later that night, he’d kept thinking about his uncle. He hated the thought of him lying there, alone, in that cold drawer, in the darkness. He’d tried to give Ben a hug when they’d gone to view the body, but May had stopped him. 

* * *

Uncle Ben’s death had been a shock, he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, they were told. Peter would lie awake in bed, hearing May cry from the next room.

* * *

Sometimes, he’d watch CSI or some other crime show, curled up on the couch. May would often watch it with him, but even she couldn’t understand his fascination with it. Or why he’d grab the remote and pause it whenever a “dead” body was shown. He knew it was just an actor, lying motionless, with layers of makeup on them to make them look sallow and sunken-faced. But there was something so beautiful about it. Human bodies are frenetic, possessed by a need to move constantly. So many organisms writhing inside them, so many thoughts and needs, fluids sloshing around inside them. Peter didn’t know what  _ people _ wanted. He never had known. It was why he was a friendless virgin, sitting watching CSI: Miami with his aunt at 11 pm on a Saturday. And it wasn’t even the best CSI. But dead bodies had no expectations, they asked nothing of him.

Sometimes, Peter would daydream about what it would be like to be dead. To be cold and still, forever frozen in his teens, never to move or see or speak again. He couldn’t quite picture it, it was like trying to imagine the end of the universe - he had no frame of reference.

* * *

He tried to be the “man of the house”, he was nineteen, he should be working, providing. It’s what his uncle would have wanted. And May was struggling, he knew she was. He found a job quickly, delivering pizzas for minimum wage wasn’t glamorous, but at least it was something.

* * *

At least his shift was over soon, then he could go home and crash. He’d not been to this apartment block before, and he wouldn’t have gone unless it was necessary.

The pizza box was burning his hands and he shifted it in his arms. A homeless man sat nearby, drinking from a bottle. The street was littered with empty food packets and cigarette butts. Peter kicked away a used needle as he approached the apartment door. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear police sirens.

* * *

Whoever said you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover hasn't seen this apartment block. Peter knew he wasn’t going to get a tip, and he didn’t. The heavyset balding man had snatched the box off him and slammed the door in his face. Peter sighed, and was about to leave when he heard a noise coming from two doors down, a heavy thump, followed by a pained groan. 

He should leave or call the police, he wished he had x-ray vision so he could see what was going on. But what if somebody was being murdered? He’d read plenty of superhero comics as a kid, had loved to imagine what it would be like if he had powers, but honestly, he was no hero.

The door looked flimsy, if he put his full weight on it...maybe. He rammed his shoulder into the door, wincing at the stab of pain that juddered through him. He tried again and again, finally feeling it give as it blew open and he fell inside. What he saw took his breath away.

* * *

He spotted the body almost immediately. For one thing, it was big, a male corpse, freshly-dead, lying splayed out on the floor like a felled tree. His arms were stretched wide, and they were thick with muscle.

The cause of death was the knife impaled in his stomach. Was it suicide? He wondered what could drive a man to do such a thing but then, this man looked sick. The skin of his face, arms and neck was ruddy, an angry red like the worst rash imaginable. He hoped it wasn’t contagious.

He drew closer, rather foolishly feeling like he was trying not to wake a sleeping giant. If this man was a giant, that made Peter Jack the giant killer. He smiled softly. He wasn’t a killer. He just appreciated the dead.

He dropped to his knees, examining the body. What a magnificent beast of a man, the hard muscle, the perfect lines of his face. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling and they were the prettiest shade of brown he’d ever seen. There was a fleck of blood on his left eyeball.

It seemed like this man had died alone. And that he’d wanted to die. The muscles, the skeevy apartment and assorted guns and knives that were strewn about the place told Peter that this guy was dangerous. Probably not a boy scout. So he shouldn’t spare any pity for this guy, right?

This was his only chance to see a dead body, to  _ touch _ it. He had to be quick, though.

He ran two tentative hands over the body. The hard muscles in its arms, the deep V of his waist, and up to cup two firm pectorals. He even mustered up the courage to withdraw the blade and thrust his hand into the hole it had left, feeling the cooling blood coat his fingers, glueing them together. He was exquisite.

Nobody knew this guy was here...right? Nobody would be missing him. He didn’t look like the sort of guy to have an assembly of friends and family.

His heart was beating furiously in his chest, and he honestly felt afraid. Not fearful for his soul or out of concern for the body, but a real worry that he would get caught. But then, this felt like fate. This body was here and beautiful and perfect and if he didn’t do this, he’d spend his life wondering.

His mind made up, he ripped the guy’s shirt open, hearing the _ping!_ of buttons hitting the floorboards.

“Fuck, you’re  _ beautiful, _ ” he whispered. Such strength. Such raw power. Musculature like that belonged on a statue.

There were small blood drops on the man’s clavicle and he licked them off, tasting the metallic tang in the back of his throat. He rested his head on his chest, listening for a heartbeat that wasn’t there. Silence, flawless silence. 

It was painful to leave him there, on his own. He wished he could have stayed but he didn't belong here.

* * *

Weeks passed and with nothing to sustain him but memories of cool, still flesh and sticky blood, he felt mad with longing. And with that, he knew he had to return to the body. It wouldn’t be as pretty now, the smell would be foul, that’s if it hadn’t already been discovered. And he wasn’t sure he’d be happy seeing the parasites feasting on it. It was a necessary part of life but damn it, that body felt like his, and he didn’t want anybody, be they a police officer or a maggot (pretty much the same thing) touching it.

But the body was calling him with a siren song and he knew he had to see it again.

* * *

The apartment was untouched, surprisingly. No yellow tape, which was a relief. But he saw some things that gave him pause. He was certain the body had been dressed in a short-sleeved shirt. His mind was fuzzy but he distinctly remembered its arms being bare. But the body (and it was clearly the same man) was wearing a grey sweatshirt that bore the logo of a bar Peter hadn’t heard of. It was wearing blue jeans, as it had been before, but his brain ticked with the feeling like he was missing something. It was like the spot the difference page in a puzzle book. Were they the same jeans? They looked different from his memory. But the knife was still there, lying beside him where Peter had placed it.

Peter released the breath he’d been holding.

“I’m back!” he announced, padding softly into the room. He didn’t know why the body hadn’t been discovered but hey, why look a gift horse in the mouth? What surprised him was that the smell was fine. Yes, the room stank heavily of blood, but there was no decomposition. It frankly didn’t make sense.

“You smell great! That’s a nice surprise. That sweatshirt looks really warm, I might take that with me when I go,” 

It was soft, a warm fleece material, and Peter threw himself down to snuggle beside the corpse, nuzzling his face in its chest. “You’re so beautiful,” he turned its head towards him and smiled up at its dull, unseeing eyes. There was a shine in them that was quite lovely. “I like your eyes. I bet you had a nice smile when you were alive, your teeth are very white. I think your mouth would feel nice on me,” he said. He laughed as a thought popped into his head. “I have to be a lot more forward with you then I would in a, you know, a normal relationship. I have to make all the moves because I know you can’t!”

He was content to lie there for a happy hour, mouthing soft kisses on the man’s neck. Perhaps his body heat had bled into the corpse because it didn’t feel freezing cold to the touch, it felt cool but more like the feeling of a person who’s spent a couple of hours playing in the snow. He felt like he was going crazy so he hoisted up the guy’s sweatshirt but saw the big hole in his stomach, clear as day. He was dead, definitely. Nobody could survive that. He even stuck his hand in the maw again, mainly to check for himself that the guy was absolutely dead. Yep, there was no movement, no rush of blood. Perfectly still and still perfect. He felt something hard, too smooth to be a bone fragment and yanked it out.

The object, streaked with blood, glinted in the light. A bullet. There...there was a gun lying nearby. But the man had died of a stab wound, how could he also have been shot?

Peter felt a chill run through and snuggled closer to the man, not that he could do anything to help warm Peter up. He stroked the man’s face tenderly and planted a soft kiss on his lips. “I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t know what kind of life you had or what made you think that this was the only way to stop your pain but...I’m sorry life was so hard on you. If I knew you before, I like to think I would have been kind to you. I like to think we would have been friends.” He gently kissed the man’s forehead and could have sworn he felt it crease beneath his lips. Probably just a maggot.

* * *

It didn’t look as though the body was going to be discovered for a while so Peter came back, a few times. He didn’t spend the whole time lying with the body, he took the opportunity to snoop around the apartment. He told himself he was doing the right thing, he could find clues about this man’s life and find out if there was a next of kin he could notify. He still didn’t know why the landlord hadn’t discovered the body, surely the unpaid rent would be noted.

But then, perhaps his quiet friend had auto-payment set up. If he had a lot of savings in his bank, there may be no reason for anybody to suspect that the tenant was lying prostrate in the living room for a few weeks but not doing much living. It was during this snooping, that he found an old letter addressed to a Mr. Wade Wilson. It was just an invoice but at least now, he knew his name.

“Wade,” Peter sighed, trailing his fingers down the sculpted chest, to the waistband of his jeans. “I want you,” He felt like a child unwrapping a Christmas present, but a present it was expecting, had begged its parents for. Wade’s groin was an angry red to match the rest of him, but his cock made Peter feel faint with need. He was huge. He was also flaccid, which was disappointing, Peter would have thought there would be some rigor mortis, but then, this corpse did seem to be taking a while to decompose. Never mind. There were other things he could do.

He flipped Wade over with difficulty, using both hands and with much struggling and grunting. Wade was no help of course, but eventually, he fell heavily to the floor, his nose smashing the floorboard. Peter could have tricked himself that he heard a soft grunt of pain, but it probably just gas escaping.

Wade’s pants were still bunched around his knees and Peter took a few seconds to admire his buttocks and hard thighs. His body was built for power but his face (minus the scarring) was pretty. The big eyes, the perfect Hollywood jaw and white teeth. He didn’t waste any time, kneeling behind Wade, palming his cock as his eyes trailed over the powerful thighs. His cock was much smaller than Wade’s, he almost wished he’d had a chance to meet Wade when he was alive, it would probably be a hookup to remember. But then, a man like Wade likely wouldn’t have wanted Peter.

He lined himself up with Wade’s buttocks and slowly pushed in, using one hand to guide him. Oh, Wade was tight, his skin clinging to Peter’s cock, pulling him in, welcoming him. Peter thrust hard, his hips working fast, grabbing Wade’s waist, then his arms, his shoulders, anything to anchor him as he fucked the corpse. “Wade, Wade…” he chanted, fucking harder and faster, losing rhythm, losing stamina. He was so fucking weak, not a muscle-bound machine like Wade was and the thought angered him, filled him with fire. He pounded into him, feeling his balls tighten and let out a cry, releasing his seed deep inside his lover. He was exhausted, as if his very life force had been drained out of him and he collapsed, boneless and sated, on Wade’s back.

“I love you, Wade,” he whispered.

* * *

Peter left the apartment, his jacket buttoned up to hide the bloodstains and walked home. His walk was quiet, but his brain was full of thoughts that swarmed and multiplied like flies. What he was doing was wrong. It was one thing to hang out with a corpse, maybe cuddle them a bit, but he’d raped - no, don’t think of that word. He’d _ desecrated _ the corpse. This was sick,  _ he _ was sick. He should be the one lying there dead, not Wade. What would Uncle Ben have said? And he was playing a dangerous game. Sooner or later, that body was going to get discovered and he’d been careless, leaving saliva and semen and thousands of fingerprints. He deserved jail. He did.

It felt horrible, washing off every trace of Wade’s existence from his body, scrubbing dried blood off his arms in the shower. Like he was erasing the bond they had. But this wasn’t a bond though, was it? A bond is two-way. Wade didn’t love him. It wasn’t a bond.

His bed felt empty that night, missing the feeling of a bulky body to cling to. He hated leaving Wade alone, but what could he do? He supposed when Wade got found and eventually laid to rest, he could try and find the graveyard he was buried in and visit it. Talk to him sometimes. But what if he ended up cremated? He was never going to see him again.

He wrapped himself in blankets, burrowed into them like a tick and let hot, salty tears dampen his pillow until morning. He knew this good thing couldn’t last but he had to see Wade one last time. To say goodbye.

He showered, brushed his teeth, dressed and picked at some toast, then set off for the apartment, letting muscle memory guide his feet.

* * *

The door was unlocked but when he pushed it, there was resistance as if something heavy was lying against it. He could only open it a crack and he thought he saw a flurry of movement, something dark. An icy flicker of fear trickled down his chest. Was it the police? Had they found Wade and were taking him to the morgue? Had they discovered Peter’s DNA samples, carelessly left at the scene of the crime? He backed away, turned to head back down the hall and far away from Wade. But then, he thought he heard the scrape of something heavy being dragged against the floor. The door fell open.

He knew it was a terrible idea, that he was likely walking into the NYPD's trap, but he had to see Wade, just to see if he was...alright.

The room looked untouched and he breathed a sigh of relief. Wow, he’d really been losing it lately, there was no dark shadow, no blockade on the...door.

That bookcase had moved. He was sure of it. It was a large mahogany block, filled with paperback books and a bunch of DVDs. it was on one of the shelves in that bookcase that he’d found the invoice and learned Wade’s name. It hadn’t been so close to the door before. He felt small and vulnerable in this strange, silent apartment, surrounded by a dead man’s belongings. At least Wade was there, lying on his stomach as he had been last time.

Had he been wearing a t-shirt last time? It was a tight grey crewneck, stretched around his shoulders and arms, the material straining. It was hiked up around his back, exposing a tantalising hint of flesh between the t-shirt hem and the waistband of his jeans.

“Hey, Wade. You look hot today. You always look great,” he said and knelt beside Wade’s head. “I’ve got some news. I don’t think it’s right, me coming here to see you. You need to be laid to rest and stuff. So after today, I’m leaving and - and I think I need to call the police and tell them about you. I need to turn myself in. I’m sick, Wade,”

He stroked Wade’s nape, and down his back. “I’m really gonna miss you,”

Something hard gripped his wrist. Peter shrieked, seeing scarred fingers wrapped around his arm. He jerked back, to see Wade looking up at him.

The bald head and raw skin and dark eyes unnerved him. He no longer felt safe here, he was meddling with things he didn’t understand. He whimpered, trembling all over, fearing zombies and demons and the damning of his soul. Something had possessed his dear Wade. Something evil, something-

“You look hot too, dollface,”

* * *

Peter screamed and ripped himself from Wade’s fist. His stupid feet wouldn’t do what he needed, he tripped as he ran, throwing himself out of the door and down the hall. He could hear heavy, thudding footsteps as he ran and the shadow of a larger body pursuing him. He banged on doors as he ran but his first assumption had been right: this was not an apartment block for people who cared about their neighbours.

He reached a fire door and almost wept with relief but his fingers only grazed it before he felt strong arms squeeze around his ribs like a vice.

“No, no, please, stop it, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, I was - I didn’t know you could feel it, I’m sorry!”

The body of Wade Wilson dragged his thrashing body back to the apartment, a room Peter was sure he would die in.

To his surprise, once they were inside, Wade plopped Peter onto an overstuffed armchair and turned his back on him, heaving the bookcase against the door once more.

Peter was paralysed with fear, even more so when he saw Wade lumber up to him, those dark eyes alight with what Peter saw as a malicious glee.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,”

“You should be,” Wade said and his voice wasn’t a deep rumble as Peter would have expected. It was kind of whiny. “It’s 3 am, you’re gonna wake up the neighbours!”

“I...I didn’t, I-”

“Aw, poor baby. Hang on, lemme give you a hug. My body is, ungh, so stiff, I think it’s all the laying around. But if it makes my bae happy,” He threw his arms around Peter, burying Peter’s face in his armpit. He smelt of soap and was the warmest he’d ever been.

It didn’t seem like Wade was going to kill him just yet, so Peter spoke, muffled against Wade’s arm. “I don’t understand, how are you here?”

“You know how there are people in this world with powers? Superheroes?”

“Like the Avengers?”

Wade rolled his eyes. “That name makes them sound more badass than they are, trust me. But yeah, kind of like them. I’m like them but way cooler. I have powers too. I’m not talking about my beauty and grace, I’ve been blessed with those since birth! But I heal, super-fast. Any injury. I can’t die, kiddo. Believe me, I’ve tried,”

“But, but I’ve seen you dead, you were lying there and I -”

Wade let go of him and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Yeah, and it didn’t take you long to get _bizzay_ with my sexy little cadaver! I stabbed myself with a sword, mainly because I’d never done it before and I was bored. No big deal, I knew I’d wake up sooner or later. I was dead but I came back to life. Some injuries take longer to heal than others. Of course, once I noticed I had a pretty little trespasser, I started trying to keep myself dead-er for longer. Shooting  _ and  _ stabbing myself instead of just one method. Or swallowing poison before I stabbed myself. Sometimes, I’d wake up and I’d try and stay still, not make a squeak. But baby, you should have seen me when you’d leave. I had some rock-hard rigor mortis!” he said. He leaned in. “In my  _ dick _ ,” he whispered.

“So you’re...not mad?” Peter said desperately.

“Something tells me I’m the first corpse you did this to. I don’t think you’re a bad guy, sweetheart. I think you’re mixed up and you have an interesting kink. And it’s better you do that stuff with me than with an actual dead person,”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, you’re a cute little necrophiliac and I’m a dead man walking. We’re a match made in Heaven, baby!”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quickly, so if you spot any typos, please let me know.


End file.
